What Hurts the Most
by NatalieDragomir
Summary: Katniss and Peeta's daughter finally understands the seriousness of the Hunger Games, and sets out to heal all the hurt the have caused.


I tug at the grass beneath me, pulling up dirt and roots with the short green blades. Birds chirped in the background, the sun beat down brightly, not a cloud rolled by... it should've been the perfect moment. But so much was on my mind since I'd started to understand my parents' story. Nothing would ever be the same.

I didn't remember when the seriousness sunk in. Even being little, The Hunger Games were just common knowledge. It was always a sad story, but more of a bedtime one. The sort of thing your mother told you so you'd behave, the tragic ending being your consequence if you didn't. Recently, though, it struck me as more realistic with each passing moment. My parents were icons in these cruel games and put a stop to them. No longer a fable, my interest grew and the real tale was repeated to me time and time again. In a way, it was sad. My parents really did go through all this loss, suffering, pain, grueling memories always there to haunt them, lurking in the back of their minds to jump out and relive the torture...

But on the other hand, it was better this way. I knew the truth, and didn't the truth always set you free? Of course, if anything, it only trapped my mind in an endless argument with itsself. _Why don't you do something? Oh, shut up, why _would _you? Is it because you miss the times when this wasn't real? Never! This is the only way to understand. Then why don't you just do something? Come on, it's obvious this still kills them inside! _The Hunger Games just had this effect on me, like it was my responsibility to mend all the broken souls it caused. Not just that... but for some reason, I felt as though it was my fault. Even though I wasn't around, it was my doing that these Games used to happen every year.

"Prim, please get your brother and come inside! It's lunchtime!" My mother's sweet voice broke through my thought barrier and filled me with joy. Only she could take away the searing pain the voices that filled me caused.

"Yes, I will." I took his hand right beside me and walked slowly inside. Cheese, bread, and thin slices of meat lied on the table. My father poured water into four glasses and set them down. All of a sudden, the need to know just burst from me like a dam.

"Mom, please tell me about the Hunger Games again. "

"Oh, honey, you know about them."

"I... tell me about Aunt Prim."

That rare hurt came over her face, the kind that only showed when something really cut deep. She'd grown accustom to my constant pestering about her history, but not the girl who should've been my aunt. When that look came it usually meant she'd stay quiet for some time, be alone for an hour or two, then come out and act like nothing had happened. Not this time.

"She was the most talented healer you would ever meet." The words came out as such a quiet whisper, they were barely audible. However, years of hunting lessons gave me the ability to listen and focus.

"How? Who taught her? You always said when it came to healing, you'd only end up hurting someone further."

"Your grandmother. Prim had such a kind heart, so generous and selfess, she believed nothing was beyond repair. It didn't matter if her patient was dead. To her, it was worth a shot." This time, my mother's voice was a bit more steady and I didn't have to strain to hear.

"Why am I named after her? Healing isn't my thing either."

That's when the hurt expression grew worse and my father stepped in. "Leave your mother alone. These things are never easy."

"I-I didn't mean to-"

He shook his head and set down my glass in front of me, then helped my brother into his chair. "I know you didn't. You'd never want to hurt anyone. But sometimes, we do things without meaning to. Especially when the scar is still so vulnerable, never healed even after years. Now why don't you two eat?"

He walked back over to her, whispering things like "it'll all be okay." They both then exited, leaving me to my lunch quietly. It just wasn't fair. They told a lot to me, but there was always this shared feeing that was kept to themselves. Was everyone with a history in the games like this? So reserved, shut down, unwilling to go too deep into conversation?

It was then I made up my mind. When the click of the door shutting echoed through the house, I threw out my food, put on my shoes, coat, and packed a bag. It didn't contain a lot; some food, a water bottle, and a map of Panem that always lied in the box in the corner.

There was no definite place to start, and no real way to get there. It would be hard to even accomplish anything when I didn't have a specific goal in mind. All I knew was that Panem had to rid of the hurt that the Hunger Games imprinted on them all.


End file.
